


mixed doubles

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Robbie snaps. “I like him.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and I like her,” Georgie says. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”</p>
<p>“Kind of guy who’s going to cheat on her in a week tops?” Robbie asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mixed doubles

Tony’s family comes, and with them, fucking pandemonium. Some of that is three boys between 7 and 13. They’re always at each other’s throats, if decent enough to Gabbi, at least, and Robbie would put good money down that by the end of the night something’s getting broken or someone’s running to their mother in tears. Even better money on at least two sets of tears on Christmas.

They’re loud little savages, but that’s nothing on Tony. His wife’s okay, if a little quiet. Tired looking, and who could blame her with those monsters constantly underfoot, Tony as her husband. Tony’s clearly where they got their lung capacity, and even before Robbie’s downstairs he can hear Tony, big ass voice and wide ass…ass.

“Hey guys,” Robbie says as the kids speed past him on the way to the basement, gets a couple lackluster waves in response. “Don’t let me keep you,” Robbie says, once they’re out of earshot, makes his way to the kitchen, where his mother gives him a beer and then kicks him right out, tells him to socialize. 

Honestly he’d rather stick around there, but he’s a little old to be hiding in his mamma’s skirts, and while Tony and Nick together make for extra fun, it shouldn’t be too bad with papa around. No one’s pulling any shit with papa around.

Die Hard’s on, and that’s even better news, something the four of them can watch in generally peaceful silence, only interrupted by the occasional shriek from downstairs and Tony going to the stairwell to yell at the kids to keep it down. Never checking on them, but Robbie knows the second there’s real trouble they come crying up to their mother, so apparently they’re on their best behavior today. 

After the first Die Hard the second comes on, because someone up there loves him, and that takes them all the way up to dinner. Most of the stuff in the kitchen was prep for tomorrow, Robbie thinks, making it so that they wouldn’t spend Christmas in the kitchen, but dinner’s still a little more elaborate than one of those Sunday dinners they did when he was a kid. Isabella and Tony came once a month, resigned, and Robbie obliviously told them every single little thing that happened to him since they were last there, basically waiting for a pat on the head, a ‘cool story, bro’, minus the sarcasm. He was a pretty stupid kid. 

There’s a cake for Gabbi after dinner, just a little one with two ‘1’ candles stuck in it. It’s barely bigger than the cupcakes Robbie gets from that place in Georgetown, but then, it’s her second birthday party in a week. She offers to share with Robbie, ‘since you missed the big party’, and Robbie tries not to feel bad, tries harder not to feel judged by everyone around the table. Not his fault he’s the only one who’s moved further than twenty miles from Saugus.

They switch to something a little family friendlier than Die Hard after dinner, if not more Christmassy. Living room’s too small for all of them, really, and Robbie ends up sitting on the floor with the kids. Gabbi falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through. According to Isabella she’s been up since five, got the Christmas morning jitters a day early, some hybrid of it and her birthday, he guesses. He lets her sleep, and after the credits roll Nick takes Gabbi home, asleep in his arms, lanky and exhausted from the attention. Tony’s wife takes the boys up to bed, says she’ll have an early night herself. Everyone else ends up relocating themselves and their wine glasses to the dining room, so it’s just Lombardis sitting around the table like those old Sunday dinners. No one seems to be feeling particularly chatty, and that’s fine by Robbie. It’s been a long day. 

“I’ll get another bottle of wine,” mamma says, when glasses start to get low. When the bottle’s done her and papa head upstairs, and it’s the kind of sibling reunion Robbie was always too young for, then gone for. It doesn’t feel quite right, like he’s sitting with an aunt and uncle, not a sister and brother, like the second their father left the table, the sole point they have in common, the thread snapped and they’re strangers. Not Isabella and Tony — they’re brother and sister, act like it, were a united front as long as Robbie can remember, though papa says they fought like crazy when they were kids. Two years between them, but fifteen years between Robbie and Isabella, and Robbie feels every single one of them.

“The Capitals are having a good season,” Isabella says after liberating another bottle of wine. It’s not the first time she’s said it, far from the first time anyone’s said it tonight, but Robbie guesses it’s better than just staring at one another, so. “Gabbi’s excited about the game in February.”

“Think you have a chance in hell against the Bruins?” Tony asks.

“We’re third in the league, Tony,” Robbie says. “I think we might be okay.”

“Really went turncoat on them, huh?” Tony asks. “You were such a big fan, too.”

“I don’t cheer for my competition,” Robbie says. “Weird, I know.”

Tony rolls his eyes, and Robbie rolls his right back.

“More?” Isabella asks, and pours them both another drink without waiting for the answer.

“So you’re playing with Georgie again,” Isabella says, and Robbie winces. “It really the first time you’ve seen him since—”

“My mamma’s blabbing about that to you?” Robbie interrupts. “You serious?”

“It was papa, actually,” Isabella says.

“Papa’s gossiping?” Robbie asks disbelievingly. “About _Georgie_?”

“Bag yourself a big shot and papa will talk about it, even if it’s a fucking dude,” Tony says.

“Fuck off, Tony,” Robbie snaps.

“Just saying,” Tony says, then, “You coming to papa’s 65th, or you missing that too?”

“I’m in Florida,” Robbie says.

“Come up anyway,” Tony says. “It’s a big fucking deal to him.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “I’m just going to go to management and tell them they’re just going to have to call someone up from Hershey and inconvenience two fucking teams because it’s my father’s birthday. No biggie.”

“Guess family doesn’t mean shit if you hit the pros, huh Roberto?” Tony spits.

“It’s Christmas, Tone,” Isabella says. 

Tony makes a point of looking at his watch. “Not for an hour and a half.”

“Then it’s still Gabbi’s birthday, so stop,” Isabella says.

“Sorry, Bella,” Tony says. Looks at her and not Robbie, not that Robbie particularly wants to continue the conversation.

“You should head to bed,” Isabella says. “You know the boys will be on you before six.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “You’re right. Night, Bella.”

“Night Tony,” Robbie says sweetly once he’s out of earshot, and Isabella gives him a look but doesn’t say anything.

“Another drink?” she asks instead.

“Always,” Robbie says, and she tops them both up.

“How’re things with Georgie?” she asks.

“So great, thanks for asking,” Robbie snaps, then, because it’s Isabella, and more likely to be a genuine question than a barb, like if it were Tony, “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and they sit in silence while she finishes her drink. “Walk me home?” she asks.

“Sure,” Robbie says, and he walks her the three blocks back to her place, giving her his scarf when she starts to shiver.

“Patriotic,” she says.

“Caps,” Robbie says, shrugging, and she wrinkles her nose but wraps it around her neck. “Gabbi can have it.”

“Gabbi has enough Caps stuff,” she says.

“Never,” Robbie says, and she sighs but doesn’t give him the scarf back when she reaches her front door, so that’s another Caps item in Gabbi’s grabby hands. Robbie thinks Nick’s legit going to kill him one day for turning his daughter so completely against the Bruins, but in the meantime she’s going to rock the red, white, and blue instead of looking like some Hufflepuff reject.

“See you in the morning,” she says. “You’re okay to get home?”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Robbie says.

“You’re drunk,” she says. 

“I’m tipsy,” Robbie argues, but the walk back alone reminds him yeah, he’s drunk.

Still, doesn’t do to leave an uncorked bottle on the table, so. He’ll have some company in bed.

At six the next morning, excited shrieking setting his nerves aflame, he really, really hates himself, but honestly, what’s fucking new, lately.

*

Friday evening, Robbie’s sitting across from Georgie and his girlfriend and hating his fucking life. He’d tried to get out of this stupid date thing with both Georgie and Francis, did his very best wheedling. That was a no go, so now he’s wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to say to Georgie’s girlfriend. “Hey, how’s Georgie in bed? I literally know nothing about you other than the fact you’re fucking my friend on the regular.”

Robbie kind of recognizes her, the foggy recognition where you know you’ve seen someone before but you’re not sure where. It’s not like he pays much attention to whoever on Georgie’s arm, not like he needs to. By the time he learns a chick’s name Georgie will probably be onto the next. Kaitlin, though — and there, Georgie, Robbie remembers it — has been around for about a month now if you count winter break, which is forever in Georgie terms. Georgie hasn’t been picking up either, though there was a stretch of home games, so who knows, maybe it’s just lack of opportunity. Or Georgie was tearing asses up between World Juniors games while Robbie was playing with his niece and nephews under the Christmas tree. Robbie doesn’t know or care, frankly. Kaitlin’s problem, not his.

“So how do you guys know each other?” Kaitlin asks. That's a pretty good neutral question. Robbie will have to keep that one in his back pocket for Georgie's next girlfriend, and hope it isn't 'five minutes after meeting I had his dick in my mouth.'

“Econ study group,” Francis says, while Robbie flatly says, “Biblically, did Georgie not tell you?”

Francis elbows him. “Robbie thinks he’s funny,” he adds.

“I am funny,” Robbie mutters. Georgie laughed.

“Robbie takes it very personally if you don’t think he’s funny,” Francis adds.

“ _Hey_ ,” Robbie says.

Francis grins at him. “Not proving me wrong, Rob,” he says.

“I _am_ funny,” Robbie repeats.

“Yes, babe, you’re very funny,” Francis says.

Kaitlin’s laughing now. Not at Robbie’s awesome joke, of course not. Probably flew right over her head. “You guys are adorable,” she says.

“Adorable?” Robbie says, offended.

“We are, thanks,” Francis says, elbowing him in the side again.

Over the course of the night Kaitlin calls Robbie and Francis cute so many times Robbie thinks she wants to stick them in her purse like lapdogs or something, put tiny gay bowties on them. Georgie looks about as unimpressed as Robbie feels, but Francis just looks amused the whole time, probably because she’s laughing at all of _his_ jokes. Not Robbie’s. Terrible sense of humor, there. Not that Francis isn’t funny, Robbie thinks Francis is funny, but you know who is more funny? Robbie. Robbie is more funny.

“Right?” Robbie asks.

“You’re more funny,” Georgie agrees, then returns to his cereal.

“ _Thank_ you,” Robbie says. “Francis funnier than me. Hah.”

“I don’t know why you’re still with him anyway,” Georgie says. 

“I thought you liked Francis,” Robbie says, frowning. 

Georgie shrugs. “I don’t not like him,” he says. “I just don’t really get you two.”

“What’s to get?” Robbie asks. 

“I don’t know,” Georgie says, in that kind of tone that means he _does_ know, he’s just not going to say it, “What do you even have in common with him?”

‘Economics and a mutual enjoyment of blowjobs, soccer, and Beyonce’ sounds a little too flippant an answer, though Robbie thinks it’s a plenty good one, especially since they’ve been together like seven weeks, and that’s only if you count from their first hook up and consider winter break as part of that time. Winter break was post the boyfriend talk, so it technically counts, but the sum total of their communication was texts and one attempt at phone sex that went off the rails and ended in them laughing at each other, so. It’s been like two and a half weeks, real time. Hanging out and making out and holding hands as boyfriends time. Hardly a ‘still’ with him kind of deal.

“What do you even have in common with Kaitlin?” Robbie asks of offering his reasons or guiding Georgie through his insightful examination of what constitutes quality relationship time.

“You serious?” Georgie asks.

“What?” Robbie says. “Don’t need something in common? Sex that good, don’t need to talk?”

“She’s ranked nationally in swimming,” Georgie says, “she’s crazy fucking good, got a full athletic scholarship here. Her brother plays lacrosse for the Toronto Rock, so she gets the professional athlete end and she gets the professional team end. She gets the pressure I’m under to perform. She’s also got a perfect GPA and knows more than me in like…every fucking subject ever, but yep, Robbie, we have nothing to talk about, totally just the sex.”

“Whoa,” Robbie says. “Sorry for not magically knowing all that.”

“Sorry for never listening to a fucking word she says, you mean,” Georgie says. “Why the fuck would I date her just to get laid?”

Robbie shrugs. “Constant supply? I know you don’t have a problem getting some, but hey, tap the keg if it’s good.”

“You’re an asshole,” Georgie says. “Tapping Francis’ keg, then? That what it is?”

“Hey,” Robbie snaps. “I like him.”

“Yeah, and I like her,” Georgie says. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Kind of guy who’s going to cheat on her in a week tops?” Robbie asks.

“Fuck you, Robbie,” Georgie says. “Seriously.”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em,” Robbie says, and Georgie doesn’t talk to him for three days before Braden basically strong arms them into a truce and they goes back to normal, pretending no one said shit. Robbie’s not proud — he’s pretty sure he’s not wrong, but he’s not proud of saying it, and he was basically a dick to Georgie for no reason.  


Or, for a reason, but he’s _really_ not fucking proud of that part.

To Georgie’s credit, he actually holds out a month before he fucks someone else, and he’s pretty cut up about it the next morning. No shoulder shrug bullshit this time, he’s hungover and full out pissed at himself, and then, richly, at Robbie for ‘letting him’. 

“Didn’t guide your dick into her,” Robbie says.

“Didn’t stop me,” Georgie says.

“Not my fucking job, dude,” Robbie says. “You are in charge of your own dick.”

“I know,” Georgie mumbles. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell her, but she finds out anyway. Apparently her and Martin’s girlfriend are buds, and Martin must’ve let something slip, because three days later Georgie’s single again. Usually he shrugs it off within an instant, easier than Robbie would shrug off, like, getting rejected for a date or something, maybe even someone being an asshole to him in general. Georgie’s a bounce back kind of dude. This time he’s genuinely bummed about it, and Robbie listens to his emo Georgie track for like two whole minutes before he snaps.

“You fucked around on her, man,” Robbie says. 

“I know,” Georgie says.

“You’d fuck around on her again,” Robbie says, and when Georgie glares at him, “Don’t start, you would.”

Georgie shrugs kind of aggressively, which Robbie takes as reluctant agreement.

“Maybe you’re just not the girlfriend kind or something,” Robbie says. 

“Maybe,” Georgie says. “I want to be, though.”

“Yeah, so did I,” Robbie says, and when Georgie glances over at him, “Because my dream was being the dick sucking family disappointment.”

“You’re the boyfriend kind, though,” Georgie says.

“I don’t like, try to be,” Robbie says. “I just am.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, sighing heavily, then lies back, head resting on Robbie’s stomach.

Robbie lowers a hand, cards through Georgie’s hair. He considers telling Georgie he never liked her anyway, but that probably wouldn’t help much considering this shit’s Georgie’s fault and she acted basically exactly the same way Robbie would if Francis fucked around on him. Maybe with a little more crying, because apparently that happened.  


“You’ll be okay,” Robbie says instead.

“Got you, huh?” Georgie says.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Congrats on your consolation prize.”

“You’re not a consolation prize,” Georgie murmurs, and Robbie’s stomach shouldn’t twist the way it does, hearing that, but. He’s aware he has zero control when it comes to that. It’s almost comforting routine, now: Georgie’s Georgie, Robbie’s helplessly infatuated with him, and they just keep on keeping on. 

“Weren’t you seeing Francis tonight?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “But you got dumped, so.”

“Thanks,” Georgie says softly.

“Sure,” Robbie says, hating what he’s getting out of this, that he _is_ getting something out of this, that it’s not just a bro thing, Georgie’s head on his belly, Robbie’s stomach in knots. That’s not Georgie’s fault, though, so he continues to run his hand through Georgie’s hair the way his mamma always did when he was sick or sad, whether he was nursing a cold or a bad grade or a cut from the roster. 

“This helps, right?” he asks. Always helped him, right up until he decided he was too mature for it. He doesn’t feel that way, right now. Seems the older he gets the less sure he is that he _is_ mature.

“Yeah,” Georgie says, “You help.”

It wasn’t what Robbie was asking, but it’s still somehow exactly what he wanted to hear.


End file.
